


Steady on the Path

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Porthos doesn't kiss Aramis after he returns & one time he does. (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady on the Path

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a drabble prompt from JL for "Porthos feels awkward about ~intimacy~ after their S3 post-war reunion. Aramis /did/ become a monk, afterall. Aramis reassures him." I ended up writing too much for it to just be a little ficlet, so I'm posting it here instead. (This is what happens when I listen to that one damn Adele song that gets stuck in my head, too.)

**one.**  
When he comes back to the garrison, Athos’ arm around his shoulder, smiling – Aramis knows it has been too long from home. The war stretches out behind them, but finally over. He’s been away from home, from Paris, for so long. He has been away from them for so long. 

He isn’t sure what he expects, but there’s d’Artagnan and Porthos in the courtyard. They both look up – and freeze, clearly taken aback at his sudden appearance. Aramis bites his tongue, feels the slightest quiver of fear – the fear of rejection, of loss. That it is too late. That it is—

Athos interrupts his thoughts, says, “Seems we’re all together again.” 

It’s a gentle kind of sentiment that is usually not Athos’ style, but Aramis finds himself looking to d’Artagnan hopefully. And d’Artagnan is already stepping forward towards him. 

“It’s good you’re back,” d’Artagnan says, his initial shock gone in favor of smiling brightly – and it’s been so long since he saw that smile. It hurts to see it now, but only in the best way. “Even though you missed my wedding, you know. I’m a married man now.” 

There is a pang of sadness that he should have missed it – but he cannot regret his decision, not if it meant that he could protect them. Protect everyone. 

He looks around between them, laughing. “Ah – I hope you can forgive me.”

“It could be arranged,” Athos says, that same dry humor that he’s known over the last years. He gives a lopsided smile, thrilled. 

“But please treat me kindly,” Aramis says, slipping so easily back into teasing, to light-hearted deprecation. “I am, after all, a man of the cloth now.” 

Athos almost smiles, which means he’s amused, and d’Artagnan laughs and pats his shoulder. 

Aramis looks at Porthos next, who has been silent this entire time. He finds that he’s been waiting to look at him, afraid of what he sees – holding his breath now.

Porthos is smiling at him. Of course he is. It is soft, gentle – but hesitant. There’s the hint of his dimples, but no flash of teeth. It is a quiet, thoughtful little smile – as if he is considering, as if he is coming to his own decisions. Aramis hates that, in this moment, he can’t tell what Porthos is thinking. 

“Welcome back,” Porthos says, quiet. 

And it is sunny and bright, and he feels that he is just where he is meant to be, just where he was always meant to be. There is a pang to it, of course there is a pang of sadness, of longing – but this. This has always been his family, an extension of it. What he needs.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says, and means it. 

In another life, Aramis would have followed Porthos back to his room, or a darkened corner – hidden in there with him, leaned into his space, kissed him. 

Now, Porthos looks away and says, “We have to get back on duty.” 

At the time, Aramis can’t place why it feels off, to have them fall back so suddenly into their roles. 

 

**two.**  
Aramis wipes his brow at the end of the training exercise, his breathing labored. He is not out of practice, but there is a need for training now that he is taking on his full duties again. Across from him, Porthos rolls his shoulder once, grunts, and then sheaths his sword with a satisfied smile.

He gives Porthos a dimpled smile and says, “Bet you’re still just as good with the musket.”

Aramis shrugs and demurs, “Oh, I suppose I’m alright.”

Porthos snorts, wiping his forearm across his face, scrubbing away the sweat and grit – and Aramis’ heart pangs at how boyish and gentle the simple action is, how much it reminds him suddenly of all the years he’s known Porthos now. Well over a decade at this point. 

“Modesty never fit you,” he teases, and this time he is grinning. Aramis’ heart patters painfully in his chest when he smiles back. 

It is near evening and they are alone in the courtyard, hidden in the shadow cast by the stables. Aramis swallows down and steps forward. He has been back for days, and has hardly had any time alone with Porthos. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, stilling Porthos in front of him when he reaches out and touches his shoulder. 

Aramis closes his eyes and leans in – kisses him, the simplest kiss. His heart hammers up into his throat. 

Only to drop back down when Porthos pulls back. He frowns when Porthos draws away. It’s their first kiss since he’s returned the regiment, and long since coming besides. Their kisses before – before all of this, before he had to leave – they’d been deep, lingering, gentle but with that slightest whisper of teeth against his lip. The kind of kiss that always left Aramis sighing. 

This kiss is quiet in comparison – quick and short, sweet perhaps, but hesitant. Porthos drags his teeth over his own bottom lip, fiddles once, and then gives Aramis a small smile. It is not lack of desire that makes Porthos kiss him this way, but Aramis still frowns – still has a deep, clenching fear inside of his heart that he has truly ruined them beyond repair. 

Porthos smiles at him – apologetic – and reaches out to grasp his arm. Squeezes it once. 

“Let’s go get some food,” Porthos offers, and then turns away. 

 

**three.**  
They’re on a mission and the heat is sweltering. They’re crouched down behind a slopping bank leading up to the bridge they need to cross. There’s a group of red guards camped out there and Aramis frowns as he surveys the course of action. True, it isn’t quite as exciting and dangerous as fighting the Spanish, but it’s still needed that they get across that bridge unnoticed. That includes red guards. 

Porthos is a steady presence beside him, looking out over the landscape, clearly assessing. Aramis stays quiet, lying on the hillside beside him and scooting closer to try and get the same sightlines as Porthos. 

“What do you think?” he murmurs.

Porthos nods with a thoughtful grunt. “If we cause a distraction, we should be able to manage it.” 

“What kind?” Aramis asks, staring at the three red guards. “Throwing a rock won’t make all of them abandon their posts.” 

Porthos nods and says, quite calmly, “We’ll need an explosion.” 

Aramis laughs a little, breathless, and grins. Back so long ago, years and years ago now, they’d have delighted in this – the sense of danger, the strength of being together like this. They’d part ways only after a brief kiss for luck 

He looks at Porthos now. He’s been back for weeks now, and Porthos has barely touched him. Aramis hasn’t moved to ask him of it yet – terrified of the answer. He hasn’t asked. For everything else, Porthos is still the man he’s always known: kind, teasing, gentle, strong. He is not angry with Aramis – he knows that much, Porthos would say so – but he does not touch him unnecessarily, does not kiss him, does not linger close in his space. He laughs with him, jokes with him, fights with him. 

For all the world now, it seems that Porthos has moved on. They are, in the end, merely friends. Aramis has not attempted to kiss him since that night at the stables and he will not attempt it now. His heart is twisted up in his chest – but it cannot be helped. He left Porthos. He left Porthos, just as all the other people who have ever loved him did. He does not deserve to be held again as he was. 

He will only have to accept that. He will only have to move on, too. It is the path in his life: to never have what he wants. 

Porthos looks at him, smiles a little – and Aramis wonders if he’s also thinking of their old tradition of luck. He reaches out and pats Aramis’ shoulder before turning away. 

Porthos draws back from the hillside, slides down to its base, and heaves up the case of powder they have – sneaking off into the woods to set the trap. Aramis watches him go and tells himself not to regret. 

 

**four.**  
Porthos’ birthday now – a hot, sweltering day in August – and it’s been three years since Aramis has stood like this with the melon on the crown of his head, held steady and poised. Three years without him here to celebrate Porthos’ birthday. 

He thinks back to the first birthday he ever celebrated with Porthos – that he was the one to find out about it, that he was the one to demand they celebrate. That he was the one to balance the fruit on top of his head and demand satisfaction. 

That the melon showered down over him, bits of it stuck in his hair, his face covered in juice.

That he pulled Porthos into the shadows of the garrison, dragged his tongue over the seam of Porthos’ mouth until Porthos licked all the juice from his cheeks, his lips, his mouth. They’d kissed for hours, fucked for longer. 

And every birthday after that, the same celebration – melons and sex. Sometimes the other way around, sometimes with Aramis desperately trying to get into his clothes fast enough and get downstairs so that he could shoot the melon, his suspenders curled up together in the back and sitting awkwardly on his spine. Feeling that same, desperate happiness as he stood perfectly still, outstretched his arms, closed his eyes—

Knew that Porthos would always protect him, if only Aramis would let him. Feeling the chill of the melon exploding above him. Shivering not with fear, but with desire. 

This birthday now, Aramis offers him the fruit with more apprehension than he’s ever felt – unsure if the gesture would be returned, if it could even be needed now. He does not expect anything more than this, cannot expect it now. But they are, in the end, still friends—

And Porthos’ face splits into a wide grin as he takes the melon from him, weighs it in his hands. His face is flush and bright with drink, happy, thrilled – his birthday was only ever a day for him to be happy, Aramis hopes, never something to regret. Aramis swallows down, looks at him hopefully.

“Perhaps if you—”

“Well come on,” d’Artagnan interrupts, now pretty far into his wine, as well. “We have to make sure Porthos isn’t too rusty after so many years!” 

Athos merely hooks an eyebrow up towards his hairline as he looks between the two of them, then takes a long drag from his own bottle of wine before tossing it towards Aramis. 

Aramis grins, slightly manic, as he looks at Porthos. 

Porthos laughs, tosses Aramis the melon, and jerks his chin towards Aramis’ usual position where he would stand. “Come on,” he tells him. “Gotta show them how it’s done.”

And a few minutes later, Aramis is balancing the melon, showing off for the gathering crowd as he remains cool and collected, twisting up the corners of his mustache. Several paces away from him, Porthos is loading up his pistol. 

At this point, Aramis would normally close his eyes. Instead, he merely sucks in a breath and watches Porthos – waits. Porthos looks up at him, adjusts his position. 

Aramis watches, his heart frozen in his chest, when Porthos lifts the pistol – another tradition, to kiss it for luck. And stops. Pauses. Looks up at Aramis and seems to remember himself. 

He holds out the pistol without kissing it once. Aramis can’t hide the wretched look on his face, knows it reads bright and clear. He clenches his eyes shut, because he cannot stomach to look at him, to understand the full extent to what he has given up. What he has lost. 

The shot doesn’t come. Aramis opens his eyes again and Porthos is looking at him – obviously misinterpreting Aramis’ expression for fear. Aramis blinks rapidly a few times, almost shakes his head before he remembers the melon.

He swallows down, grins. “While we’re young, Monsieur—”

He watches this time as Porthos aims and fires. Breathes out as the shot goes wide, only hits the side of the melon and sends it spiraling off his head and crashing to the ground. It splits there, and there are only a few bits of melon in his hair this time. 

The shot rings hollow, even as the musketeers around them call it a victory and start cheering. Aramis looks at Porthos once, and then away – his throat too tight for him to speak. 

 

**five.**  
Porthos curses loudly and jerks away from the needle. 

“Porthos,” Aramis warns, as gently as he’s able. “Please. We need to—”

“Shit, I know,” Porthos curses, shoulders hunching as he stares down at the deep gash running from wrist to elbow. “I just – it _hurts._ ” 

“I know,” Aramis says, hands shaking as he cradles his arm in his hands – the longest he’s touched him in months now, the closest Porthos has let him get. “It won’t hurt for my longer, my lo—”

He trips over the words before he can think of it. Porthos looks at him in shock.

“—my friend,” Aramis corrects, belatedly, lamely. They both know what he’d almost said. 

They fall into an unsteady, strained silence. Porthos isn’t bleeding out, most of it clotted now after a sluggish bleed. But there is still the risk of infection and Aramis needs to be steady, needs to stitch this up – needs to _protect_ him. 

He feels frozen in place. “It’ll – I’ll go get more thread.”

He stands up on wobbly legs, his knees buckling. He stumbles to his kit, gathers more supplies. When he turns back towards Porthos, he is hunched over into himself, arms balanced on his thighs. He isn’t looking at Aramis now. 

He doesn’t look up when Aramis returns, rethreads the needle. He doesn’t flinch when Aramis works at stitching up his arm. They say nothing more. 

 

**& once more.**  
“We can’t do this anymore,” Porthos says suddenly, face hidden by the shadow cast from his hat. 

It’s raining as they’re walking the streets of Paris on their patrol. They’re heading back towards the garrison now, and Aramis had reached out, thoughtlessly, and touched his back in a way that was far too intimate. The words hit Aramis like a pistol shot and he yanks his hand back, the apology already on his lips. 

“I can’t anymore,” Porthos says again, softly. “I’m trying, Aramis.”

“I know,” Aramis whispers, stops, lets the rain hit hard at his shoulders as he hunches into himself. “I’m sorry.”

Porthos shakes his head. “It’s not your fault – I know it’s… I know it’s important to you.”

Aramis frowns down at the ground. There are puddles. Mud on his boots. There’s an insistent ringing in his ears that he can’t get rid of. He tries to steady his breathing. This is it. This is the moment where he pushed too far. He’s pushed too much over the last few months, sought to be so close to Porthos, to be near him, to speak with him and joke with him – so desperate for what’s been left behind, what he’s lost. 

“I’m trying,” Porthos says. “I really am.” 

Aramis stares at the ground, frowns more. “Forgive me. I’m pushing too much.”

“It’s not that,” Porthos says, sighs. 

He pauses, then reaches out and grabs Aramis by his arm – pulling him into a side-alley, so that they’re not out in the open anymore. Porthos touches his arms, though, slides them gently – but not lingering. Only squeezes his wrists and lets go. 

“Look,” he says, quietly. “We’re friends. We’ll always be so. But this – I can’t pretend like nothing happened.”

Aramis’ voice goes thick when he says, “Of course not. After I left, after everything I did—”

“Not that,” Porthos interrupts. “With us. I can’t pretend _we_ never happened.”

Aramis makes a soft, confused sound. “I never asked you to do that.”

“Figured it’d be easier,” Porthos mutters. “Isn’t it? I can’t… I’m not going to ask you to go back on your word.”

Aramis is silent for a moment. Then, “Porthos – I don’t understand.” 

“Your vow,” Porthos says. “You’re still a monk, aren’t you?” 

Aramis blinks once. Looks at the way Porthos’ hands fiddle – so natural, for him to reach out to touch Aramis and now restraining himself, restraining himself after months – that sure reality that he has missed something important. 

“Porthos,” he says, quietly. “No, I’m – I’m not.” 

Porthos shakes his head. “It’s alright. I just – how the hell am I supposed to forget about you?” 

He gives him a helpless, heartbroken smile – and Aramis breaks, steps forward, pushes Porthos to the wall and kisses him. Porthos grunts once in surprise, then touches his hips. He doesn’t quite kiss back, but he doesn’t draw away, either.

Aramis pulls back, looks at him, touches his face. “Porthos,” he whispers. “Don’t think that I don’t…” 

He trails off, swallows down on the swell of emotions pressing to the back of his throat. 

“Kiss me,” Aramis whispers instead, leaning in to speak against his mouth. “For the love of _God_ , just kiss me.” 

Porthos makes a soft, hitching sound – and folds Aramis into his arms. A moment later, he does kiss him back – deep and desperate. They can’t do much more than that for a long few minutes, overwhelmed and clinging to each other desperately, a backlog of emotions from well over a month – of _years_ at war and away from each other. Aramis clings. Clings as if it is the last and only time he could ever get a chance to do this. 

“You foolish man,” he sobs out against the kiss, deepens it and clings to the back of his neck, tethering himself to him. “How could you think I didn’t want you?”

Porthos shakes his head, his own breathing ragged, his own voice hitching as he answers, “I knew you did. I just thought you couldn’t anymore.” 

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” Aramis admits.

Porthos chuckles, but it’s a heartbroken little sound. Aramis kisses him again and again to banish the sound. Porthos sighs out, holds him close. Doesn’t let him go. 

“I always do,” he admits. “I always have.”

Aramis makes a mournful sound, touches his cheek, holds it steady—

“Always,” Aramis agrees, and the desperation sinks away into a certain elation – a reassurance. He hasn’t ruined it. It isn’t gone forever. Porthos is _here_. He closes his eyes, shivers, and clings more, wrapping his arms around Porthos’ shoulders and burying his face into his neck, his breathing unsteady. 

Porthos kisses his temple, noses into his hair, and shifts to hug him. Even this is almost too much, closer to Porthos than he’s been in years now – holds him tight and just won’t let go. 

Aramis never wants him to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
